


In Good Company

by Duruska



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:37:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duruska/pseuds/Duruska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Humanstuck Ancestors fic involving backstories, awkward romance, hippies in thai fishing pants, Lawyers with nice butts, trust issues and baked goods.  Human names will be used.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Betty Crocker.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Humanstuck AU. Obviously “Signless” and “Disciple” don’t fly as regular names and it felt awkward trying to make them, so I’ve given them some hopefully fitting names. I will put them at the start of the chapter as the characters become relevant.  
> Psionic: Peter James-Fan  
> Signless: Duncan McGuire  
> Disciple: Catrina Turner  
> Dolorosa: Mary Sharma  
> And that’s all you’ll need for this chapter.

_“Welcome to_ **Betty Crocker Corporations**!  
Here at BC, we don’t like to think of our employees as robots grinding away in the factory, we like to think of them as our children.  
Within our unconfined walls one can find endless opportunities to grow with us as a company.  
We don’t just sell pre-packaged baked goods. We sell **love**.” __

As if the logo, motto and general atmosphere of the Betty Crocker Company was not obscenely charming, the email Peter received that morning was downright adorable. Unfortunately, it’s seemingly welcoming messages only made the knot in his stomach tighter. The fact of the matter was that he didn’t want this job. He didn’t want to be part of this eerily friendly company. Not the very company he had been fighting to shut down.  
He shouldn’t complain, though. Out of the four of them, he probably had gotten off the easiest. He and his two other friends had been roommates in college. The fourth? Well, she was more like a mother to them all. Mostly Duncan though, considering she raised him from such a young age. Taking in Duncan was only the beginning of Mary’s kindness however. You don’t meet many single women willing to adopt a ginger baby with a scream like a wounded puma in them when upset about something, anything. She did though, without a second thought, because that was just who she was.

Perhaps it was because Duncan was charismatic from birth - he had a way with words and people. He was intuitive and in touch with the emotions of everyone around him, but he never let it get him down. He was always talking about his new plans and ideas, constantly making up new theories and movements and never ceasing to be the loudest inspiration on campus. Peter supposed that 'hippy' was the best way of describing him, and it fit him to a T. He was a scruffy young man, with a mess of ginger locks and the beginnings of a beard framing his face; he walked about acknowledging every nameless face about the school and made them feel human again. He was also so enthusiastic when he talked about his ideas, and it made Peter wonder how anyone could walk away from him. The day Peter stopped and listened to him was the day his life changed forever, and he could do nothing but roll with it be swept away by it all. 

Actually, when he thought about it, the emotions stirred up by the email, were strikingly similar to how he felt on his first day of college. He was never the type for friends, or at least that’s what his parents said. “There’s nothing wrong with being a bit…awkward. It’s a phase! You’ll grow out of it! Study is what’s important.” So study he did. He studied and worked hard and began to dabble more into the art of taking apart his computer and putting it back together…better. His father saw it as a marketable skill and so it was off to college to study I.T. for him. He spent his first week trying to avoid other people as much as possible, a remarkable feat for a boy in a student population of over one a few thousand. After class he would scurry to the library, at lunch he would scurry to the library and on the Friday of his second week, he couldn’t scurry past Duncan. In fact, he practically crashed right into him. His mind was in another place and Duncan was too busy talking the ear off a less than eager senior. The senior, happy for the distraction, made his way back into the crowd and Duncan wouldn’t let Peter leave without berating him, buying him a muffin and asking how his first week was. Somehow from then on, they were inseparable. Until now.

While Duncan was known for his “peaceful protests”, his companion tended to take the more aggressive approach, especially when it came to animals. The girl was never without cats, whether it be on a keychain, shirt or the actual animal curled up in her arms. Catrina was mellow most of the time, especially around Duncan, but when she saw or heard an animal’s rights being abused, a dangerous temper flared up within her. Peter supposed feisty was the word for her. Unfortunately, their protests had become too feisty, they fought with the wrong people and they lost. Through no fault of their lawyer, Constance, who was nothing if not dedicated to Justice. Perhaps borderline obsessed with it was the best way to describe her. The judge did not share her keen sense nor did he share her sympathy; he had Duncan pegged as a miscreant and almost seemed gleeful as he sentenced him to five years in prison. As his track record wasn’t exactly clean, trying to preach to the judge only added to his misfortune, and the stunningly articulated insults were digging him a deeper hole.

With Duncan gone, the group was destined to disband. Through no fault of their own, they were just so much more passive than him. So willing to take what life threw at them. They were not without punishment, naturally. Catrina got off a little easier than the others. (Duncan seemed to believe it had something to do with the security guard on duty, he mentioned that he was “leering” at Catrina the whole time. Peter hadn’t noticed.) So she was under house arrest, where she stewed alone with her cats, pining for what Peter could only assume was her lover. Though they never made it clear*. Mary and he were requested to “make it up” to the company. This required at least one hundred hours of unpaid work for the company and the assurance that the media would know that Betty Crocker is their brand. Somehow, Mary was weaseled out of this by a very curious reporter. The rival’s lawyer seemed to have a lot to say about this, his mutterings garnished with a rich vocabulary of swear words.  
Having relived the past for long enough, Peter snaps his laptop shut and looks up and around him. Not in possession of a car, Peter was forced to catch several buses to his new, unpaid job. The intense joy was obvious on his face, his eyes looked dull and unenthusiastic and his mouth was pulled in a tight frown, hiding his somewhat ridiculous teeth. He hated the things, nobody took anyone with a lisp seriously, and it was a fact of life. Everyone at that damn place was probably going to laugh at him, but he had to get it over with. Duncan would murder him if he ended up in jail with him, Duncan would just be in jail longer, and then Catrina would murder him again for separating him from her for even longer.

The bus rolls to a stop and he can see the bright red spoon logo, far in the distance. Trudging to the front of the bus, Peter was becoming aware that there is nobody else occupying the seats. He looks about before turning to the bus driver, nervous about speaking to a stranger. “Uh…doesth thisth busth thtop at the Betty Crocker company?” he manages to choke out. The bus driver turns and stares, seeming as though he’s absorbing the words. “This is the last stop.” He says, offering no help beyond that and opening the doors. Peter gets off without a word. Stepping down onto the pavement, He took in the view of the long, hill garnished road ahead of him.  
It reminds him of something Duncan used to say. "Hills are a fuck of a thing to climb, but once you're at the top, it's a fucking breeze going down the other side." With that thought in mind, he starts walking.


	2. Fresh as Fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter meets two new people and probably doesn't like them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one name this chapter!  
> Darkleer: Edmund Hunter

Peter comes to two conclusions as he finally reaches the gates of the company. One is that black trousers are not what he would call the ideal outfit for a long walk (so itchy). Secondly is the realisation that he’s never worked in a large company before. Up until now he’d been living off free-lance computer repairs and a part time job. Under Duncan’s wing, Peter had learnt how to live under his means. As a bona fide hippy, he kept things simple and didn’t pander into things he imagined “The Man” might be trying to sell him. He certainly wasn’t interested in pre-packaged baked goods, everything was “fresh as fuck” for him, and he damn well liked it that way.

The sudden wave of memories left Peter dazed in the spot. He felt the slightest pang in his heart as his mind drifted to Duncan. It was so terribly hard to be strong without him, and he felt himself reverting back to the way he was before college. Though he was fairly certain that if he tried to stay holed up in his room, Betty Crocker herself would drag him out kicking and screaming; he needed to emanate that charismatic strength that Duncan did. Instead of shying away from the imposing gates, he puffs up his chest and walks up to them, slowly beginning to realise that this company is neither bus nor walking friendly. The stretch of land in front of him is filled from head to toe with shiny sports cars of all colours, more than just an excessive show of wealth and disregard of the Earth.

How do you get in? A curious person might as well ask. Peter, being both curious and clever, is quick to realise there’s some sort of scanner, for the convenience of those with a name badge with an internal chip. Peter has neither of these. Peter is fucked. He leans in to inspect the box, finding the help button tucked away in the most obscure place possible. He figures security doesn’t like to be bothered with such trivial matters such as an employee locked out of the building.

He presses down on the button and is greeted with the sound of a ringing phone before it becomes static filled white noise as the guard picks up. “If you have forgotten your staff card I will have to report you,” speaks a distinctly familiar voice - it’s soft but by no means calming. Actually, chilling might be a better word. Of course it had to be this guy; they’ve definitely met before, and by the worst possible circumstances. Maybe it’s part of the job to look sort of terrifying, and if it is then this guy should get a promotion. The voice chimes in again, breaking his thoughts. “Sir?” The formality makes Peter uncomfortable and his voice gets caught in his throat as he goes to answer. Suddenly he becomes aware that he’s parched from the walk and all he manages to do is rasp. “I can see you in the camera, sir.” The voice chips in again. “If you do not work here, I will have to ask you to leave the premises. Or, if it suits you, I can escort you….” 

Thankfully, Peter finds his voice again before the guard can expand on that thought. “N-no!” He cringes at the stutter. “I work here, I’m new here, I don’t have a thtaff card (or a car), tho I can’t get in.” There’s a pause on the other line before the guard speaks up again.  
“Generally they hand those out during inductions.”  
Peter becomes irritated, raising his voice as he retorts. “I’m not a normal employee. Didn’t anyone tell you I wasth coming?” He was hoping he wouldn’t have to clarify the fact that he’s here for the worst reasons. 

There’s a long pause on the other end before the voice takes a tone with more bite to it. “I will have to come and let you in, the gate is locked.” He says that as if it’s Peter’s fault, which makes him hesitate before mumbling a thanks - but the guard has already left his station.  
The idea of Peter loitering about must have bothered the man, because he’s already visible among the colourful sea of cars. Peter couldn't keep from tensing as the guard becomes less obscured and more familiar with every tap of his foot. His hands fidget at his sides as he searches for something to preoccupy them with; he wants to tuck them in his pockets but the little voice in his head tells him he’ll look like a miscreant of sorts. With a sharp nod in Peter’s direction, the gate opens at a painfully slow pace. The guard, seemingly immune to the awkwardness that filled the air, stared openly at Peter as he waited. The sunlight glinted off his sunglasses and his silver name tag, emblazoned with the name “E. Hunter”. Peter wasn’t usually one for irony, but the name was remarkably suitable for him. 

Almost dwarfed by the man’s height and muscular build, Peter slinks past the gate once it’s open, trying to smile agreeably at the other, unsure if he recognises him or not. If he does, he doesn’t even try to express it. His face remains impassive as he ignores Peter in favour of watching the gate as it trundles open. It becomes increasingly obvious that the gate does not stop once the person is let in, and if the fact that Hunter has remained still is any indication, he is required to wait until the gate opens and closes again before he moves.

Unsure of whether he’s allowed to leave without Hunter nor where the entrance is, he waits in awkward bliss as the other stares straight ahead. Finally, the gate clicks shut, the sound echoing in the silence of the carpark. Hunter, wordless as ever, turns with a flick of his thick, black hair, which had been swept up in a ponytail. He seems to understand that Peter is lost without him having to say anything and he’s almost marching as he leads the lost boy to the centre of the corporate hive. With another swish, he’s turning on his heel and walking in the other direction. Peter isn’t sure if he should feel touched by the silent help or snubbed in some manner, but his trail of thought is interrupted by a call for attention at the front desk and he shrugs it off.

His job is fairly simple - he’s the office bitch. He makes copies and collects and delivers printouts. He is the master of the stapler and he wields it with the last few shreds of his dignity. His most important task is the delivery of coffee to the legal department. He was warned in his brief induction that without caffeine the lawyers are snarky and cruel, and it was his duty to constantly keep the cups on their desk full, so that the rest of the employees won’t face their wrath. He knows Duncan would sneer at the mice trapped in their little cubes, but Peter felt a strange sense of comfort in the conformity. All the coupled cubes and matching lines put him at ease. While he wasn’t sure how much he would enjoy being a drone in an office, the idea of being in front of a computer in his neat little cubicle didn’t seem unappealing at all, a thought he knew would upset Duncan.

Once the caffeine addicts of the fifth floor had been sated, he was able to take his trolley elsewhere. He leans on it lazily as he glances about the elevator, which was made primarily of reflective surfaces; Peter can see himself no matter where his eyes travel. His mind travels elsewhere and he begins to wonder if any of the employees have gotten it on in here, against the reflective surfaces. 

Before his mind can expand on that, a train of thought he’s not really sure he necessarily wants to entertain, the elevator pings him back to the real world. He stops using his coffee trolley as a resting stand and begins to use it for its intended purpose once more. The coffee rounds on this floor go much faster, as there are fewer cubicals in favour of office space and the people who inhabit them are too busy to acknowledge him. The last offices on the floor are the most impressive; the front walls are built from a glass mosaic, making the inhabitants seem like fish in an aquarium. Unlike the cubicles or the medium sized offices, these rooms feel open and spacious thanks to the light pouring in from more than one source. 

Almost done with his first coffee round for the day, he peers into the last office, trying to see through the mosaic. The figure inside is a blur of black and purple and his voice can be heard from outside the office. He’s clearly irritated. Irritated and busy. Should he skip him and come back later? He doesn’t fancy being yelled at by some asshole on his first day. Then again, maybe he just needed a coffee? Was that why he was angry? Did people get angry over coffee? Deciding being yelled at is probably not the worst thing that will happen today, he knocks on the door before pushing it open. A dark haired man with a scowl on his face sits across the room at his desk, phone in hand. The scowl isn’t the only noticeable thing on his face, though - across the top of his nose there is a long scar that extends beyond his eyebrow. An inch under it, there’s a shorter scar, almost like the shadow of the other one. The phone seems to be the source of his current misery, until he slams it down. Peter takes the opportunity to speak up, before the other can tell him to get out.

“Thir? Would you like some coffee?”


	3. Killer Whales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intern with a knack for computering meets a Lawyer with a penchant for aquatic animals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your name for this chapter is Murdoc Donoghue, also known as Orphaner Dualscar.

“Thir, did you want some coffee?”

Peter fidgets in the doorway, suddenly realising that hightailing it would have been the safer option. He can see that the man behind desk seems to be sizing him up before the recognition appears on his face, and Peter’s stomach drops and he tenses. No wonder he has such a nice office; he was the lawyer who had fought to get Duncan put in prison. Against their lawyer, who was practically lady liberty herself, he had been brutal. He spoke as if the crimes committed were not simply made against the company, but to Miss Crocker herself. 

The other man grunts in response, leaning back into his chair with a look of discontent. “What I want is a computer, that actually FUCKIN’ works!” He exclaims, clicking the mouse furiously as if that might help. Peter isn’t really sure what to say to that, though he’s resisting the urge to tell him that clicking the mouse doesn’t magically fix everything. “An’ of course every single person in the damn I.T department is “busy”, they’re always busy. Always!” He throws his hands up in the air before sinking further into his seat. “Not that you’d know that. You’re new, aren’t you? Let me give you a hint before you fuck up, never trust those moles down there in the I.T department. They don’t even know what RAM is. Stupid fuckers...” 

Swallowing both his pride and his underlying resentment from the day at court, Peter steps forward, neglecting his coffee tray near the door. He couldn’t help but be curious as to what could be causing the man, or rather, the computer, such grief.   
“Thir..?” He starts, his eyes wandering to the name plate on his desk, the name “M. DONOGHUE” engraved in plain, capitals. Donoghue raises a single eyebrow at Peter’s abandonment of his coffee duties. 

“Yes..?” He asks, the singular word seeming so bland compared to his previous ramblings that were embellished with a thick accent and curses.   
“I might be able to help; I’m pretty good with computerth.” He shrugs lightly and rubs the back of his neck, taking another step closer. Donoghue looks sceptical at first and then he shrugs and rolls his chair back to give Peter room to look. 

“You can’t fuck it up more than it already is, I suppose.” His voice sounds relaxed, but the expression on his face is obviously suspicious.   
Peter nips in front of his computer, a frown appearing on his face as he sees it. The infamous blue screen of death had struck again, and Peter can’t help but wonder what the other man could have done to screw it up so badly. He strikes some keys before ducking under the desk to unplug it from the power source, only to plug it in again. The awkward silence is overwhelming as Donoghue just watches him silently, and Peter can feel the judgement radiating from him as the computer slowly switches back to life. He wishes it would hurry up so he can start fixing this brick with a keyboard and mouse so the man can stop staring at him.  
He pats the computer, knowing it won’t help it hurry up. This thing must be on its way to imminent death, it was so old. As the screen lights up, he wonders how the other even had it running today. Peter stares down at the screen before glancing over his shoulder at the man behind him. Donoghue returns Peter’s look with a raised eyebrow before realising. He rolls the chair forward, bumping Peter out of the way to start typing. Everything in this company is under lock and key - the computers require an eight digit login and an even longer password. Or perhaps the man was just so paranoid that he felt such a long password was necessary, anything was plausible. 

Suddenly, a killer whale filled the screen as his desktop icons began to load over a picture of an orca poking its head out of the sea jovially. Most of the screens Peter had seen today had been adorned with beautiful, scantily clad women or pictures of family members, or pets, and so the whale came as something of a surprise. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter can see Donoghue’s haughty expression go blank. He stares at the whale as if he had forgotten it was his background, and then he wheels back again and picks up a loose piece of paper as if it’s something terribly important that he must read. A little amused but even more confused, Peter turns back to the screen.   
Donoghue watches him over the top of the paper, but what Peter is doing is a mystery to him. He watches as he taps the keyboard with a trained speed, pulling open windows full of words and numbers that the lawyer never cared to discover the meaning of. Peter works fast; he’s already found a virus and he’s already working on changing the computers security settings. With a final click of the mouse in his hand, he pulls away and turns to Donoghue, who is making a show of not being interested in what the other is doing.   
In turn, Peter makes a show of rolling his eyes at the other before speaking up. “Thir..?” 

Donoghue’s head jerks up immediately, clearly surprised at his attention being pulled away from the important piece of paper. “Hmm? Ah! Done already?” He looks up at Peter curiously. “Clearly you don’t work for I.T.” He rolls himself forward, not seeing Peter cringe at his terrible joke as he leans forward to poke about on his computer.   
“Microsoft Office generally thaveth any files you had open before it crathed, provided they had been saved at some point. It lookth like you haven’t lotht anything this time. You thould probably thtart thaving thtuff more often if you..” Peter pauses as Donoghue looks up at him. Is he really about to school this guy on computers? Granted, he was stupid enough to get all of those viruses and not adept enough to rid the computer of them, but…okay. Yes, he needed to be schooled. “You need to thart thaving thtuff more often incase thomething really goeth wrong. Ethpecially if the I.T Department is ath bad ath you keep thaying it ith.”  
Donoghue lowers his eyelids, revealing that the scars do continue on over them. He blinks slowly, as though he’s slowly absorbing everything Peter just said. Peter stares back, feeling like the tiniest fish being sized up by an inquisitive shark. “I have a laptop too, if you want to take a look at it.” Donoghue chips in, finally breaking the silence. Peter feels an eyebrow rise at the suggestion, and he’s almost interested in seeing whether his laptop background is a whale too, but he’s sure that he’s got other things that he’s meant to be doing right now. 

“As much ath I’d like to be a one man I.T department.” He starts, jerking his thumb at the coffee trolley. “My other job is kind of my priority.” Donoghue glances over at the coffee, looking almost too thoughtful for a man who’s casually glancing at an inanimate object.   
He rises from his chair, holding out his hand for a shake. “I never got your name.” He leaves the statement open ended with the implication that he’s curious. Peter stares at the hand and he can’t even remember the last time he’d actually shook someone’s hand out of formality. It seemed to be a dying practise these days.   
“It’th Peter,” he mumbles as he gingerly takes the hand and is given a firm shake. Peter heard a long time ago from his father that you can tell a lot about a man from his handshake, and he wondered what it meant if it was firm and official but surprisingly brief. It was obviously just a formality to the other man, even though Peter began to feel as though his own shake had left much to be desired.

“Peter. Do you have a last name, Peter?” He raises an eyebrow down at Peter, who looks away in embarrassment. Of course he was expected to give a full name, this is an office, not a school or a bar. He clears his throat, feeling that same awkwardness creep into the room again. 

“Jamesth-Fan. Peter Jamesth-Fan.” Peter blurts out. Donoghue commits it to memory with a small nod.

“That’s a mouthful.” Donoghue says, hinting once again that he’s curious. 

“I wath adopted, my parenth wanted me to keep my heritage or thomething.” Peter explains, fidgeting and glancing about all the while until his eyes settle on the name plate. “Tho what doesth the ‘M’ thtand for?” Peter inquires. Donoghue throws Peter an annoyed look for the brief answer and eventual derailing of the lawyer’s mini interrogation.  
He speaks up, finally and answers him. “It’s Murdoc.” With that brief answer, he turns his back before Peter can even reply. He bends down, pulling something rectangular out from a shelf before turning to reveal that it’s his laptop, even though Peter said he didn’t have time to look at it. Peter looks back at his coffee trolley and then to the clock on the wall, hoping Murdoc gets the hint. If he does, he isn’t showing it. He crosses the room and opens the door, beckoning for Peter. Peter cocks his head to the side, unsure if he should follow him. 

“Thir…?” Peter asks hesitantly before taking a step forward. 

“Forget the coffee, Fan.” Murdoc retorts, grunting at the other and beckoning again. “I’ve a meetin’ with someone who I think you should see,” he adds, turning to open the door and walk out of it. It’s almost as though he’s left the option to follow completely up to Peter, and he hesitates in the doorway. In his mind he lists of every reason he shouldn’t follow. This man is the reason a good man and best friend is behind bars, this man is no good and he shouldn’t be trusted. Somewhere amongst the confusion, though, a lone thought appears. Maybe he was just doing his job. Duncan had always been a firm believer in fate, just as much as he was a firm believer in change and humanity. Perhaps there was a grand scheme in the works that neither he nor Murdoc were fully aware of, so despite the man’s abrasive nature, Peter was feeling himself inclined to follow, and it wasn’t long before his legs agreed with the sentiment.   
Peter slips into the open elevator before the doors can close on the man inside. Murdoc stayed facing forward, but then glanced at Peter from the corner of his eye, almost as though he’s wordlessly thanking him. Peter tries not to read too deeply into these sorts of things, but some signs are more obvious than others.


	4. Huge Jerk, Bluh Bluh.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkward elavator trips and an introduction to the Empress of the Baking Empire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the gap in between chapters! I'm still emotionally invested in the story, I've just been aaaaall over the place. Anyway. No names for this chapter, enjoy!

This is the longest elevator ride any man has ever had to stand through. Peter isn’t sure if it’s because they happen to be travelling to the top floor (which may as well be in space for how high it seems to be), or if it’s because the other man in the small, mirrored space seems to be radiating awkward. Peter notes his stance, because you can guess a lot about a person from the way they hold their self. Murdoc’s hands are behind his back and he’s standing perfectly straight. It was a sort of rigidity that could only be achieved if one had a pole shoved up their backside, which is telling of the man’s personality. 

Murdoc’s eyes fall on him again. He doesn’t speak, but he narrows his eyes and one brow springs upward in curiosity. He didn’t need to speak; his body language said it clearly. ‘What do you want’? Peter’s eyes drift away as soon as they meet Murdoc’s and his expression becomes sheepish, almost embarrassed at being caught staring. He doesn’t know him, and he was always taught not to judge, but this guy seems like a huge jerk. Bluh, bluh. Why did he agree to come with him? He could have come up with a thousand legitimate excuses to hang around his coffee tray. 

Perhaps it was ambition. 

Even if this was a temporary job, he could take a punishment and make it something worthwhile, and he’d be beating the system. The idea of it thrilled him a little, it made him a bit eager to see whatever the scarred man was planning. Besides, who wouldn’t jump at the chance of getting away from the miserable occupation known as ‘the coffee bitch’?  
If he was unsure of whether his ambition and reckless abandon of coffee trolleys would pay off, he was about to find out. The elevator pings and Murdoc needs only take one long stride to be free of its reflective surfaces. It’s then Peter notices that the other man’s height is almost half made up of leg – he’s more leg than man but somehow it isn’t a bad look. Not that he’s ever going to hear it from Peter. Observations like this were something he prided himself on, though he rarely vocalised them around anyone other than Duncan. Besides, something about Murdoc seems like he’s the kind of guy who would take a compliment like that and run with it. Maybe it was the attention to detail in the way he dresses, maybe it’s the way he carries himself. Or, maybe, just maybe, it’s the way he was checking himself out so discreetly in the elevator. 

This time, he doesn’t seem to notice Peter’s eyes on him. He seems distracted, nervous, even, as he strides toward their destination. If Murdoc was so concerned, should Peter feel worried as well? He wonders, briefly, if the boss is a hard-ass. He had always assumed the boss of Betty Crocker was, well, Betty Crocker. He pictured her as some sweet old woman who wandered about, handing cookies to her employees, doting on them and maybe laughing a soft “hoo hoo hoo”. Now, he’s silently berating himself for his naiveté. Of course the leader of such a powerful company was bound to be corrupt in some way. They have higher priorities than the sugar levels of their employees. He shakes his head and sighs softly, which earns him another narrow eyed glare from Murdoc. He’s almost tempted to tell him to mind his business, but it’s not important. 

Murdoc takes another long-legged step ahead and places his hand on the door in front of him, but this time when he looks at Peter he actually speaks. “The Boss, she….” He trails off before speaking up in a soft voice. “She can be a little intimidatin’, so mind it.” He goes to push at the door before pausing again and turning to give Peter a stern look and grunts out “You don’t need to speak”. Peter has no time to object before the taller man pushes open the door to the dimly lit room. 

There’s a long table that almost fills the space and almost every seat is taken by men and women dressed in smart suits. At the foot of the table, where Murdoc seems to be headed, is an elegant looking woman. He can’t see much of her face, but he can see the astounding length of her hair which is as impractical as it is beautiful. It’s kept off her face by a pair of extraordinary fuchsia spectacles -which looked out of place in such an official atmosphere-, though the fact that she neither smiles nor acknowledges Peter makes him doubt that her personality is as whimsical as her glasses. Murdoc appears to be dropping down to one knee and Peter raises an eyebrow at the formality. Then he realizes there’s a slide showing playing, and he’s very much in the way of the projected image. He presses himself against a nearby wall and watches Murdoc, who is speaking to the bespectacled woman quietly, but even without being able to hear him, Peter can tell he is kissing a lot of ass. It’s really very hard to not roll his eyes. Murdoc takes his seat at her side and Peter becomes aware that every single chair in the room is now taken. Murdoc hasn’t told him to sit or offered him a chair. A frown tugs at his lips. Did they really expect him to stand here and watch the whole time? 

Now he does roll his eyes, and he looks at the slideshow playing in a boredly. Everyone else in the room watches as well, seemingly entranced by the presentation. Well, everyone except for the woman at the head of the table, whose eyes flick over the notes in front of her. Not wanting to be caught staring again, he glances across the room and wonders how they can focus so intently on such a poorly made production. He finds himself drawn to the relatively familiar, and he attempts a more subtle peek at Murdoc, who seems unimpressed by the film. Yet, his gaze seems fixated on the screen, almost as if he’s worried about allowing it to waver. Curious, Peter continues to watch him while he’s unaware and notices that the other man’s eyes are trying not to drop down to the woman in front of him. 

In that moment of realisation, the lights flick back on and the business men and women shift in their seats at the table, any zombie side effects from the presentation slipping away. It’s now that people are starting to realise the elephant in the room. The elephant being a scrawny Asian man named Peter. He feels the hairs on the back of his neck prick with discomfort from the eyes on him, but he tries not to falter under their judging stares. A small cough from the table header is all it takes to make the eyes snap back to attention. She threads her fingers together and gives the room a small smile. Was it a smile? There was no mirth to it. It was the pretence of a smile and it was not comforting in the slightest. If anything, it put Peter and everyone else in the room more on edge. Wordlessly, she twists her neck toward Murdoc and gives him a sharp nod. 

As if he was anticipating the signal, Murdoc is quick to act on it. He rises from his chair and wastes no time getting to the point. “The IT Department,” he begins, and the distaste is clear in his voice, “is incompetent.” There’s a small wave of agreeable sounds across the table and he clears his throat, effectively silencing the murmurs. “I don’t know about the lot of you, but I am damn tired of havin’ to wait an hour for someone to do somethin’ as simple as answer the phone.” He continues, practically seething as he speaks. “Not that it matters, right?” The agreeableness of the table is replaced with confusion. “It’s obvious. They don’t know what they’re doin’. Why else would they dodge calls and waste time? They’re weighin’ us down and it’s time we did somethin’ about it.” 

There’s a long pause between Murdoc’s words and the voice that chips in afterward. “What exactly do you mean by something, Donoghue? Fire them all?” That earns a short round of snorts and laughter and Murdoc shakes his head. “Don’t joke about likely circumstances. At this rate, what I’m suggestin’ is a one by one replacement of the entire department. Startin’ with the head of the department, of course.” He begins to pull his laptop out from his suitcase, making a show of flicking it open to reveal a blue screen of death. A horrible way for a computer to go, but it’s not unfixable. “Now I don’t mean we just go promote the next in line, or hire people willy nilly. Crocker Corporations is special, and I believe we deserve a specialised IT team. IT is the core of any company, afterall.” 

Murdoc turns his laptop enough for everyone to see and raises his hand, beckoning for Peter to step forward. For the first time since he’s entered the room, the eyes of the long-haired woman fall upon him. Her eyes seemed to have more impact than anyone else’s in the room, and Peter feels something he wouldn’t hesitate to call terror clench in his stomach. Murdoc slinks out of his chair and motions for Peter to sit, which he does. He turns the laptop to face him and steps back. 

“You know, I’ve been naggin’ IT about this for weeks. They told me it was fucked.” He laughs mirthlessly. “We’ll see about that.”


	5. S.O.S! Save me from this boring sap.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having computer troubles? Buy Peter now for five easy payments of 19.99. Call now for your very own lisp and snarky attitude included FREE OF CHARGE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Condesce has been given the name (the woman) Candace Crocker.

It all takes a moment to register in Peter’s mind. There’s a laptop in front of him, yes. He is fully aware of that. He’s also aware that there is a room of business men and women staring pointedly at him. He feels like the kid who got thrown in the deep end of the swimming pool right now - confused, betrayed and if he didn’t know it would draw more attention to him, he would begin flailing his arms to express just how overwhelmed he is. On top of this, Murdoc isn’t in his line of sight, so it’s not like he could even subtly glare at the man. He chose to stand directly in Peter’s blind spot, and whether this was out of luck or intuition Peter doesn’t know, but it doesn’t seem important.

The sharp tap of a pen against the table brings him out of his thoughts. The sound of the plastic pen hitting the wooden surface seems to harness the attention of everyone in the room, but not because of the suddenness, or because of the immaturity of the action. No. It was the source of the sound that got people shifting. The woman at the end of the table had her elbow propped on the surface, her head cradled in her hand as she looked ahead to the vast space of the room with a look of total boredom. The pen sits in her other hand, and it dances across her fingers as she seemed to tap out a code against the wood. “S.O.S! Save me from this boring sap,” it seemed to say in a few well-timed beats.

Murdoc’s painfully obvious anxiety was a mystery to Peter. That is, until he delivered a sharp kick to the leg of his chair. Peter jerks up with a quiet “thhh” of displeasure, shooting an irritated look over his shoulder. Once again, the entire room refocused their attention on Peter. With a few more displeased noises, Peter gets to work, trying to ignore the eyes on him as he does. A lot of people would have deemed this laptop hopeless, but a lot of people are idiots. Peter has dealt with this kind of thing before and while he doesn’t like to brag (okay, he actually does) he’s gotten pretty amazing at it. Faster than a speeding elevator, Peter has the laptop chiming pleasantly as it begins to work itself out. Murdoc’s reaction is once again a mystery to Peter, but he knows he should damn well be impressed. As he turns the laptop to show the woman he assumes is in charge, he can see everyone else’s impressed looks. That is until a few people begin to grin and smirk over Murdoc’s wallpaper, another Orca, but this time it’s peering out of its pool curiously at an appealing fish.

Peter hears a grunt from behind him and before he can react, he’s enveloped by a wall of man. Murdoc leans over him, his chest bumping against the back of Peter’s head as his hand shoots forward to snap the laptop shut. He mutters in a gruff tone about default wallpapers, and Peter gets a nose full of what smells like expensive cologne, the kind that’s bought for the sole purpose of impressing others. That smell had been obvious, fortunately not overpowering, as soon as they were in the same room, but closer he could smell something else. Something like salt. Salt and sand, and he had a rush of memories of awkward beach trips as a kid, and the smell gave him something like yearning and nostalgia for innocence and holidays. The smell faded quickly as Murdoc stood back up, though, the man flourishing his hands at Peter as if he were a fantastic blender available for five easy payments. (Call now!)

The Woman, as she will now forever be referred to in Peter’s mind, seems to be considering something. “The I.T Department will be worked on.” She said in an easy tone, though she seemed to accentuate particular words with a slightly higher pitch. It reminded Peter of the Red Queen from Alice in Wonderland and that was a tangent he really didn’t want to consider. “Meeting adjourned.” She continued, adding some urgency to the announcement, as if she wanted them all to get out. The businessmen and women were quick to act, and soon the office was bustling and busy as people picked up to leave as quickly as they could, and they seemed almost afraid they wouldn’t be able to leave fast enough. It only took a few moments for her and Murdoc to make eye contact and even less time for her to nod. Her actions seemed to speak louder than her words, but they were just as accentuated. Both Peter and Murdoc understood that the nod was an indication for Murdoc to stay put.

Once the last straggler had left, the Woman’s lips quirked in a smile. Perhaps it was her makeup, or the shape of her lips, but that smile seemed twisted and sinister and it was aimed right at Peter. She looked him right in the eye, as if trying to size him up. Without much thought, Peter returned her curious stare with his usual dead pan expression. Her smile widened for a moment before it totally disappeared and she raised her hand to wave him off. “Wait outside.”  
Peter bristled at the tone. Was he a dog to her? He figures he’d rather be out there than in here anyways, so he stands and shuffles away from the table. He watches as she beckons for Murdoc to sit and he can practically see the nervousness radiating from him. It’s obvious that they’re going to be talking about Peter, so he lingers at the door before sliding through it. He closes it as slowly as humanly possible, but they haven’t even begun to talk. Slumping against the wall outside Peter exhales slowly, folding his arms over his chest as he watches the outer office continue to function totally unaware of the council of evil taking place within the room across the hall.

Murdoc wishes he’d had a glass of water. His mouth and throat are slowly drying up and Candace hasn’t said a word since he sat down. She often played these little games with him, but no matter how often they happened he never seemed to wise up. He was shooting her curious looks and making expectant noises at her, noises that would have been questions if he could think of anything that didn’t sound pathetic. When she clears her throat he feels his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. She picks up her pen again and twirls it, and he had no doubts that she could turn it into a deadly weapon if she felt it was necessary, or maybe if she just felt like hurting someone. He knew what she wanted. She knew that he knew, of course, she always knew everything, but she would not be rushed. She puts the pen down after a few painful moments and flicks her hair to the side, beginning the barrage of questions they both expected.

  
“Where did you find him?”


	6. Personal Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we shed light on the inner workings of the office and Peter learns how curiousity broke the cat's nose.

If Murdoc had anything in his hands right now, it would be fumbled to pieces. He’s craving a piece of paper to pedantically fold or a pen to mindlessly fiddle with, something to ease his mind and relax his hands. As it so happens, he is left weaponless in the face of great danger, with not a single thing to prevent him from wringing his hands together like a petulant little school boy in the face of his most beloved teacher. Such a show of weakness would be unbecoming and improper, a side he would rather keep well away from his most beloved boss. With a flawless expression of deep concern for the conversation, he leans forward and lets his elbows rest atop the table. His fingertips press together as he temples his fingers, and his lips ghost against his index fingers as he leans in to consider this most important question. Every movement he makes is calculated, every slight raise of his eyebrow is done for the sole purpose of appearing engaged and obedient to the woman.

Of course, he doesn't even need to think about where he found Peter. He found him aimlessly batting at a security guard with a picket sign, and then again in court, looking sullen and silent. He could be very clever. He could tell her he found him this morning in his office. Wait. Does that sound inappropriate? Yes. It does. She should be aware of the conditions of his punishment, shouldn't she? He had assumed she'd kept a close watch on the affairs of the case, particularly since it seemed to be a rather large attack on her person. Even if he was her lawyer, her sole protector, it didn't mean he was the only one who could possibly be aware of the going ons in the courts and the legal departments. She was fooling around, quite obviously. There is simply no way she could have forgotten such an important detail. Even if Murdoc's name seemed to slip her mind again. She was joking, a good natured little joke between most excellent friends. Of course. 

He can use this to his advantage, can't he? He can tell her the story of how he was able to find noble genius in the lowest of places. A dangerous criminal came at him with a cup of coffee and Murdoc opened his heart and handed him a laptop. If he played his cards right, it could be on the news. That train of thought quickly loses steam as he ponders her reaction to letting the younger man bend that slim little body over and get his creepily long fingers all over company property. Keep things simple, Murdoc. Just tell her the barest facts of the truth and let her make her own deductions. She didn't need the full story and she certainly wasn't asking for it, being straight forward could only benefit them both.

"I found him in my office." He blurts out, and a loud bark of laughter follows as he silently chides himself for making a hideously inappropriate joke. It's also a horrible, unfunny one. Candace does not attempt so much as a smile at the man's sad attempts to be amusing. She remains stone faced, staring him down for a moment before flicking the hair that had crept downward out of her face, letting him enjoy the full view of her unsatisfied face. Murdoc stammers, recalculating everything again before clearing his throat and starting over. 

"Earlier this mornin'. He's here out a' obligation, Ms.Crocker. To serve coffee. Seems his talents lie beyond the kitchens, if you get my meanin'." He stumbles over his words, arching a sharp eyebrow at her as he lays down his hint. Trying to be casual, he glances down at his thumbnail, as if it is of terrible importance to him. She nods slowly, the gears turning in her mind as she ponders that hint. "As of today," she begins, Murdoc's full attention snapping right back to her and, for the first time since he entered the room, his eyes meet hers. He almost feels obligated to turn his gaze away, as if her eyes are sacred. Instead, he meets her hardened gaze with his own properly curious one, once again arching that eyebrow. He understands that every word from this point on is an invaluable order and a mission that he must complete. Slowly, he nods, letting her know that his attention belongs entirely to her.

"He will be head of the I.T Department." She nods again, a wicked little smile tugging the corners of her lips. "He's already displayed a knowledge and skill far beyond the current head and any staff we've hired. In fact..." She trails off, picking up her pen again and tapping it against the side of the table. "You will fire the better half of that department. I trust you know the names of the stragglers..." She trails off again, her own little smile widening as she quirks a brow at Murdoc. Murdoc's own mouth is curling into a sneer as he leans back into his chair, looking pleased with her orders. "I'm sure I'll manage somehow." He stifles a chuckle behind a hand, glancing to the door as he does. "Would you like to announce it personally, Ms Crocker?" He asks, turning back to give her a curious look. 

She waves him off lazily, sinking back into her chair. "This is your obligation now, Donoghue. You will see to the department and you--" She points directly at him, indicating the importance of it being him who goes about the next orders. "Will be the one seeing to it personally. You will promote him, tonight. Over dinner. I will attend, of course. See to it that he arrives and I will meet you at our usual place at eight. Do not expect me sooner." She finishes the orders with a small nod, rising out of her chair and gathering the papers into her arms. Murdoc practically shoots out of his chair at the same moment, nodding furiously and attempting to assist her as she gathers. "Right. Got it. What do I do with him until then?" He asks, not being help so much as a burden as he fumbles with the paper. 

"Put him back to work, of course." She rolls her eyes at Murdoc, as if the question was incredibly stupid. "He will not waste my time, nor will he waste the company's time. He will finish his duties for the day but you will invite him as soon as you see him. Understood?" She asks, flicking her hair out of her face again and letting their eyes meet for a final time. Murdoc stifles the urge to gulp, nodding in return. "Perfectly, Ms Crocker." 

She hums in response, turning on her heel to exit through a door on her own side of the room. As he makes his way to the other door, she glances over her shoulder at him, staring hard for a moment before addressing him for a final time. 

"Donoghue?"

He perks up, glancing back at her curiously. "Miss?"

"From this point on, he is to be considered your project. You will see to his induction and you will be pulling the strings. All other projects are second priority." She does not ask if he understands this time, it goes without saying. It's an order without any room for questions. She turns, opening the door and slipping inside before he has a chance to even confirm that he'd heard.

"It would be my pleasure." He mutters with a soft sigh, trying not to sound too bitter in case she's within earshot. He rolls his shoulders and reaches for the handle of the door, shoving it open hard enough to send a particularly curious coffee boy flying. Murdoc doesn't laugh often, but now he's biting his lip in order to hold back a veritable fit of laughter. 

Peter is not impressed.


End file.
